


Epispode 1: Introduction

by PitoyaPTx



Series: Clan Meso'a [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clan Meso'a, Clan Ordo, Clone Wars era, Gen, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, OCs - Freeform, Tatooine (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitoyaPTx/pseuds/PitoyaPTx
Summary: The wheels of a clan long since dormant in Wild Space are turning once more. Two hunters set out on a routine hunt in the deserts of Tatooine, oblivious of the storm brewing only  few planets away.





	Epispode 1: Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Welcome to my first AO3 series! Find me on Tumblr @ star-pit-epsilon for more information on this series and the characters therein.

The sky might as well be dark, for the world sure felt that way. Thousands gathered in the foothills, solemn faced or seething with anger. Three children stood at the front of the crowd flanked by their elders and their Alor, each holding the armor of their fallen parents save their helmets which sat on a granite slab facing them. The youngest, a Twi’lek girl, stood as proudly as she could despite the tears at the corners of her eyes. To her left, a human boy stared unblinkingly at his mother’s helm and the red plumage draped down the back of it like her blood should have on the battlefield. On her right, a female Zabrak teetered, leaning against her Alor as her father’s armor was much too heavy for her to bear...and yet she did it without complaint. In silence, they watched their tribesman lay beside each body a pair of Jiiya tusks, the remains of their patron animals, and a bundle of ferns from the mountainside dipped in fragrant oils. Had their bodies not been recovered, these items would have been burned in their honor..but this was different. The tribes had always been fortunate to have a planet of their own largely inhabited only by their people save the transients at the spaceport and trade bazaars they operated in the east. They could freely practice their funerary rites undisturbed, allowing them to carry on traditions passed down to them by their pre-Crusader ancestors. But this time, there would be no feast, no songs to Kad Ha’rangir, no parade from village to village. This time, there would be blood.  
Garuntha, leader of the tribes, steadied the young girl against her hip as she spoke into the crushing silence, her raspy voice cleaving the air in two:  
“Leave Mother Rahast; join Father Kad. May the sky receive you; may the ground engulf you. Mando’ade be Haria Enad!”  
“Be Haria Enad!” the assembly echoed.  
“Haria Enad, rest now. Be at peace. Your children bear your burdens now, but be ready,” the old woman’s eyes began to burn, “May your slumber never dull you, for the war has just begun.”  
“Ret’urcye mih,” each child said softly so only the wind rummaging through the trees could hear them.  
The elders stepped forward and took the armor from the children, leading them away so the other members could pay their respects. Many laid trinkets, bits of polished stones, or knives by the helmets, others put their foreheads to them and whispered their farewells. As the children passed, many reached out to pat their heads or shoulders in a gesture of condolence and encouragement. Other children raced to follow them, to not leave their comrades alone while they processed it all. Tomorrow was another day, but today they could grieve.  
Tomorrow was another day, another day to fight on.

~

“Have you heard from him?” Fent asked, tossing a sack of produce out of the way.  
Fresh from the noonday heat, both hunters stomped their feet on the mat to dislodge whatever sand still clung to their boots and pulled off their helmets. White hair tumbled down across Fent’s sweat caked face, giving him the appearance of a freshly glazed pastry. Either that, or Beon was just hungry. Fent collapsed into the chair by the console and punched the fan control, swiping his soaked locks back away from his forehead. A dull crackle later and the room became twice as windy as both men had their respective fans on blast. He shook his head.  
“Old coot will be here when he wants to. Best sit tight and relax,” Beon replied, leaning back and covering his face with his arm.  
Fent frowned and turned to the display in front of him, half of which was a live feed of the local news while the other was last night’s Huttball match. A loyal Rotworm, he drummed the desk with his fingers when plays were good and muttered when they weren’t. Beon cracked an eye, catching the winning score by the Frogdogs.  
“Heh, figures,” he chuckled dryly, “Don’t think that early draft helped their chances after all.”  
“We’ll get ‘em next time,” Fent said, giving himself the sour taste of deja vu.  
Beon rolled his eyes, “You know, maybe-”  
Wrapping on the hut door interrupted his thought. Fent groaned and got to his feet.  
“Grab the jugs,” he muttered, reaching the door and wrenching it open.  
A smiling, roughy shaven face, and wide brimmed hat greeted him on the other side.  
“Ah there you are boys, I hope I’m not interrupting,” the man said, arms swinging idly at his sides as he peered around Fent, “Heard y’all talking about Huttball, though I’d-”  
“Wiltso, we just want what we’re paying for,” Fent quickly interrupted him, pulling out a leather pouch and tossing it to the older man.  
Hugh Wiltso rolled the pouch between his fingers, feeling the credits clinking together; he licked his lips and stowed it in his back pocket. Beon appeared at the door with four large plastic jugs, two under each arm.  
“Cara!” he called to the young girl still seated in the landspeeder.  
She hopped out, tying her long blonde hair into a bun atop her head. Jogging over, she took the old jugs as Beon handed them to her, smiling and politely thanking him each time. Unlike her father, she was sweet faced and thin. Between the red flush of his face and ever growing belly, Beon doubted he did any of the heavy lifting in his business. Speaking of which-  
“Our water?” Fent crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway.  
“Cara, water!” Wiltso demanded, “polite” smile still plastered on his face.  
Cara winced, hastily stowing the last jug in the netting on the passenger side of the speeder. Encased in thermal foam, four new jugs of crisp, clear water sat insulated from the blinding heat. Cara struggled to pull them out, but managed it eventually; every time they did this, Beon wanted to help her but Fent always stopped him. He reasoned that if they made Cara look inferior in front of her father, she may be in for a beating at home. Best to just let families issues be. Carefully, she hauled each jug up the steps to Fent who slid them just inside the door. By the time she was done, she looked even paler that normal which was impressive as most of the planet’s inhabitants boasted some sort of tan. Breathing heavily, she half walked-half dragged herself back to the speeder and slumped down in the seat.  
“Always a pleasure,” her father said, tipping his hat to them.  
“Yeah…,” Fent watched Cara for a moment to see if she was still moving before shutting and arming the door.  
The two could barely hear the sound of the speeder racing away over the sound of the old man yelling.  
“Poor kid,” he said finally, easily lifting two jugs and carrying them to the tank in the back room.  
“I’m surprised she’s still alive,” Beon remarked with a sigh, “Guess her ma takes care of her.”  
Fent nodded then frowned, slumping back down in his chair. “When did he say the order would come in? If we have to sit around one more day and get water from that idiot I’m going to eat my grappling hook!”  
The “he” he was referring to was Jiik, their recently retired and semi-blind mentor. He’d told them to wait for his holo on their least favorite planet, Tatooine, but they kept this fact to themselves. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the impression that they couldn’t handle the heat.  
Beon threw up his hands, “I have no idea, also, why your grappling hook?”  
“So the spikes will kill me on the way down.”  
He blinked, but then the two devolved into laughter, Beon miming his comrade choking on the sharp metal.  
“Well,” Fent managed through the stitch in his side, “Which would you rather kill you: the hook or dehydration?”  
Beon shrugged, “We might have to do both. That chakaar is robbing us blind if you ask me.”  
“Die from both?”  
“Well yeah,” Beon snickered, “You’ll die on the hook and I’ll be laughing so hard I’ll get dehydrated!”


End file.
